


The Collar That Isn't

by all_not_well



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Collars, D/s, Dominance, M/M, Mute Daryl Dixon, Sibling Incest (implied), Submission, implied suicidal thoughts, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_not_well/pseuds/all_not_well
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a collar that isn't, not anymore. Just a pale strip of skin, naked and vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in TWD fandom, yay! First attempt at collar!fic, yay!

The strip of pale skin runs all the way around Daryl's neck, fish-belly white in stark contrast to his sun-bronzed face and arms. It makes a perfect collar - or rather, a collar that isn't, not anymore. It's a mark of freedom, technically speaking - past ownership negated by the inevitability of death, so callously heedless of anyone's needs or desires.

The collar that has so vividly marked Daryl's skin with its absence now lies gripped in Merle Dixon's cold lifeless fingers, hidden beneath a mound of earth and stone, forever lost in an unmarked grave at the side of an abandoned quarry. Rick had witnessed Daryl wearing it for less than a day - a span of mere hours between informing Daryl of Merle's situation on a roof in Atlanta, and retrieving Merle's twice-dead corpse from the warren of offices where the man had bled to death after cutting off his own hand.

The collar had made an impression on Rick at first sight, from the very moment Daryl stepped out of the woods to silently fume at the fate of his lost deer, his movements jerky and visibly restrained, his mouth moving without words, his throat flexing beneath the press of the tight band of black leather. A visceral tug of want had bloomed steadily, painfully, in Rick's gut, twisting up his insides at the _idea_ of the collar, of all it implied, control and ownership and Rick didn't even know what else.

The lack of it haunts Rick. The thought that the pale strip of skin might one day darken and disappear with the kiss of the sun, edges fading into tanned obsolescence - it hurts him. That bare collar-less skin leaves Daryl all but naked, helpless and vulnerable. Rick wants to wipe that vulnerability away, shore Daryl up, strengthen him with Rick's own mark of possession.

When they found Merle that day, Daryl hadn't said a word - beyond that one, grieved utterance of Merle's name just before he'd fired the bolt that ended his brother's brief existence as a walker. But his expression had said it all: the jut of his chin; his narrowed, reddened eyes; his thin bloodless lips pressed tightly together. They weren't leaving without Merle. The brief stroke of Daryl's thumb against worn black leather - an unconscious gesture, seeking comfort, seeking stability - had only cemented Rick's guilt, turning his limbs to stone, weighting him down with the knowledge that he could do no less than comply. He owed it to the man - to both of them, the one dead and the one living - to see Daryl's needs met, no matter the risk to them all.

Daryl hadn't thanked them. Hasn't spoken a word directly to Rick before or since. Rick's not sure he's spoken to anyone, outside of a few necessary muttered answers when he can't avoid the questions put to him. He hunts, and he keeps to himself, and he strokes that pale strip of skin about a hundred times a day, his face drawn tight and his eyes downcast.

Daryl's stroking the mark of his missing collar now, thumb brushing back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm while he rests gracefully on his knees in what was once the control room of the CDC, and which now looks to be nothing more than a tomb for their group-plus-one.

Rick can distantly hear Shane arguing, pleading with Jenner to open the door. He knows he should be helping somehow, trying make the doctor understand that they deserve a chance to live, even with the world as broken as it is now.

But all he can see is the motion of Daryl's thumb - that quick steady stroke. All he can hear is Daryl's gasping, sobbing breaths. All he can think is that he's wasted too much time in stepping back, allowing space, leaving Daryl to quietly mourn - and now there's no time left.

And damn it, Rick still _wants_ , with everything he has in him.

"Let's go!" Shane shouts in Rick's ear, pulling at Rick's arm with a relentless grip. Rick looks up to find the doors wide open, the rest of the group running full tilt to try to make it out in time. But Daryl - he's just sitting there. Stroking his collar-less neck, his eyes wide and wet and so very lost.

Rick tugs free of Shane's hold, ignoring Shane's wordless snarl of disbelief. Rick doesn't bother to look away from Daryl, not even for the man he's called brother for most of his life.

"Get them out. I'll be right behind you."

He senses Shane's reluctant departure more than he sees, as his gaze is filled with nothing but Daryl's hopeless expression. Beside them Dale and Andrea are quietly arguing, Jacqui is crying softly, Jenner is breathing in a slow and steady rhythm that speaks of the peace he's made with his decision to stay.

Daryl's breath hitches, the pale skin of his neck beginning to redden beneath the frantic movement of his thumb.

Rick reaches out to still Daryl's hand, pushes it gently to one side. Strokes his own fingers over the collar-that-isn't.

Daryl's eyes jerk up to meet Rick's. A little of the raw, aching grief fades from his expression, replaced with fragile, tentative things like _want_ and _need_ and something that looks very much like _hope_ for the first time in days.

"Let's get out of here," Rick tells him.

Daryl blinks up at him - then nods once, the movement firm and concise. And they're both up and moving a second later, just a half-step behind Dale and Andrea, running for their lives and their future.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention AU? Yeah.

They fall into a pattern, and it's as easy as breathing. It becomes second nature for Rick to look to his left and find Daryl there at his elbow, just a half-step behind, eyes downcast and head tilted in Rick's direction while he waits for instructions. Daryl doesn't question or talk back, doesn't argue the way Shane sometimes does. He just nods, occasionally mutters a quiet "Yessir," and gets the job done.

It's all _too_ easy, in fact. Rick knows they need to sit down and have a talk about it, about that little wordless communication that took place between them at the CDC. About what they want from each other and what they will become to each other. About that pale strip of skin around Dary's neck that's already beginning to darken to honey-gold, much to Rick's dismay. About the uncertain glances Daryl slants Rick's way whenever he thinks Rick isn't looking, and the way Daryl startles, then closes his eyes and whimpers low in his throat every time Rick strokes his fingers over the collar-that-isn't - as though he thinks each time might be some kind of fluke, a one-time thing that he didn't expect and doesn't expect to happen again, a moment that has to be savored and shored up against future loneliness.

And it's not that settling things with Daryl isn't high on Rick's list of priorities. He can see the way it's wearing Daryl down, each day that goes by without that all-important conversation taking place, without the reassurance that Daryl clearly needs. It's wearing on Rick just as badly. He hates that there's not enough of him to go around. He wants to take the time to establish his relationship with Daryl, to clear the air, to settle both their nerves. To collar Daryl, and claim him, and own him, and be owned in return.

It's just that every day is another damn crisis in the making. 

Guiding the group safely out of the hell that Atlanta has become. Getting stuck in a traffic graveyard. Finding themselves caught in the middle of a herd of walkers on the highway. Losing Sophia. Tracking Sophia. Finding Sophia, just in time to see her get gutshot while trying to pet a damn deer, of all things. Hauling Sophia in a flat-out run to the Greene farm, hoping against hope that she survives long enough to get some kind of medical treatment. Taking Daryl and Otis into town to collect medicine and supplies so they can get that damn bullet out. Getting the three of them back out again without anyone being eaten alive. Finding the walkers in Hershel's barn. Convincing Hershel to let them eliminate the walkers in the barn.

It's just one damn thing after another - and even when there's not an actual emergency happening, Rick's too busy patrolling the perimeter of the farm, or shoring up fences to keep cattle in and walkers out, or encouraging the others to make themselves useful in an attempt to convince Hershel to let them stay a while, or teaching folks how to defend themselves with guns and knives so that they can all keep living just a little longer.

It gets to where Rick just wants to bundle Daryl up and carry him off somewhere so that they can be alone for a bit, just the two of them, so that they can have some quiet and a chance to fucking breathe without someone pestering them every five minutes.

And then comes the morning when Rick steps out of his tent and looks to his right, and there's ol' Reverend Shane grinning like a fucking fool because he's actually getting some - because somehow _he's_ found the time to sweet-talk Andrea in the middle of a goddamn zombie apocalypse, but Rick can't even get a single moment alone with Daryl, for fuck's sake - and then Rick looks to his left, but there's no Daryl waiting there. In fact there's no Daryl anywhere. His tent, his gear, his crossbow - everything's gone, everything's missing, and it's like someone tore the heart right out of Rick's chest because his whole body just goes cold and shuts down right then and there.

He doesn't black out from the shock of it, but it's a close thing. He drops to his knees, blinking at the spots swimming in front of his eyes. Shane's questions sound as though they're coming from about a million miles away. Rick can't even find the breath to answer them. Because Daryl - _his_ Daryl - is gone. Has left him. And it's all Rick's own fault for not making him priority number one. For not making it perfectly clear that Daryl is his in the first place. For letting it be too damn easy.

When he's managed to pull himself to his feet again, he spends a frantic few minutes running around like a madman, hollering Daryl's name at the top of his lungs, yelling fit to draw a herd of walkers down on them. Until Glenn points out that Daryl's bike is still parked right beside Carol's Jeep, so he can't have left the group altogether, because they all know full well he never would have left that bike behind, not for anything. Then Andrea's sharp-eyed enough to notice that Daryl's set up his gear near one of the barns, about as far from the group as he can possibly get and still be technically in the farmyard, and about as far from _Rick_ as he can possibly be in body and in spirit.

The ashes of Daryl's campfire are still warm, though Daryl himself is nowhere to be found.

They group is gathered around Daryl's campsite, debating whether they honestly need to worry about a grown man who's used to hunting alone in the woods, when Maggie turns up to ask if they know anything about the mare that's missing from her daddy's horse barn - a skittish thing, she says, one that needs an experienced rider because she's liable to spook at a leaf blowing in the wind, never mind an actual walker. And while they're trying to figure out why Daryl would've taken off on one of the Greenes' horses when he normally hunts on foot, the mare in question gallops back into the barnyard, fully saddled and bridled, lathered in sweat, sides heaving and eyes rolling in utter terror.

Riderless.

And that's right about the time Rick completely flips his shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but there it is. :\


End file.
